


Further Investigations of the Tantra (Or: Cornelia Gets her Groove Back)

by featherxquill



Series: Cornelia and her American [1]
Category: The Infinite Bad (Podcast)
Genre: 1920s, F/M, Post series 4, Prohibition, old people dating, something goes well for a change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherxquill/pseuds/featherxquill
Summary: Transcript from an unpublished entry of Cornelia's log book, covering the final days of her stay at the Webster Hotel - which weren't so horrid, actually.





	Further Investigations of the Tantra (Or: Cornelia Gets her Groove Back)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Myx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myx/pseuds/Myx) for the beta!

[This is a transcript from the spoken log book of Cornelia Cavendish. Entry not for publication.]

 

After my humiliating encounter with George Arnold and his so-called health food, I was keen to return to my companions. Alas, I had paid up front for a three week stay at the hotel, and as the prospect of admitting my shame and asking for early release from my contract was too much for my pride to bear, I was forced to pass four more days among my fellow patrons, avoiding the dining room and dodging conversation at every turn. 

To pass the time, I decided to further investigate the practice of yoga, and visited the local library to read more on the subject. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to borrow - owing to a rather onerous rule that requires one to be a resident of the country in order to be trusted to not abscond with the books - but I was able to spend two days poring over theoretical and instructional yoga texts, which ended up serving me well in my goal of avoiding the hotel common areas as much as possible. 

Through my research, I learned that although my poses had been quite correct, my approach to saluting the sun was rather more animated than necessary. Indeed, the intention of the process seemed to be rather more about peace and being at one with the self, which appealed much more to my current mindset than had my earlier enthusiasm. 

Thus armed with my new knowledge, I took myself out on the third day to acquire the appropriate attire for my practice, and, despite my hesitation regarding the vulgarity of modern fashion, managed to find myself a rather respectable pair of loose trousers, as well as a sort of long tunic to protect my modesty. _Now_ let Dorothy’s neighbours accuse me of dancing about in my underwear. 

On the fourth day - to be my last night at the hotel - I rose with the dawn and made my way out into Lincoln Park, where I found a suitably secluded spot to practise my poses. Laying down a mat to protect myself from the damp grass, I settled into the lotus position, cross-legged and hands resting gently on my knees, closing my eyes and attempting to empty my mind - no mean feat for an intellect as active as mine. Still, with concentrated focus on my breathing - the practice known as pranayama - I was able to manage it, and found myself moving fluidly into the salutation to the sun when eventually its light landed on my face. 

The next moves followed easily. I was able to pick up from where I’d left off in Dorothy’s garden with a fluidity that surprised me, performing the motions instinctively. I only came back to myself when I attempted some of the new manoeuvres picked up in my more recent study, and even then I was able to execute the poses with my eyes closed, so aware was I of my limbs and the stretch in my muscles. I eased gently against the limits of my body and pushed it as far as it would go. I was conscious of the weakness in my abdomen where I had so recently been shot, and of a tightness in my bicep from the injuries I sustained in Egypt, but even so, by the time I had completed the poses, my body felt warm and pliant, thrumming with energy. I opened my eyes to the sunlight and breathed an enlightened sigh. 

“You’re remarkably flexible.”

A voice interrupted my contemplation and I spun in my seat, shocked to find myself observed! Some feet away, on the footpath by the trees, stood a man in a casual white suit. He had the morning newspaper folded in his hand, and appeared to have paused mid-stroll. How long he had been there, though, I could not estimate. 

“Sir!” I exclaimed, aghast, recalling the ‘downward dog’ position I had been in mere moments before and baulking at the idea of being watched. 

The man took a step forward, reaching out a placating hand. “My apologies, Ma’am,” he said. While his accent was American, he too seemed to be a visitor; his voice was rather more melodious than the grating scrape I had become used to hearing here in Chicago. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I only wondered who your yoga teacher was.”

I straightened my spine as he approached, wary of American men and their easy manners after my recent humiliation. “I’m self-taught,” I told him, somewhat primly. “I picked up a pamphlet last month, written by someone called ‘The Great Oom’, and have been learning the poses by myself.” His interest piqued mine, however, given that he seemed around my own age - he was silver haired and had a gently lined face - and was the first person who had not responded to my practise of yoga as though it was some sort of witchcraft. I enquired: “You know something of yoga?”

“Indeed I do,” he said, his mouth curving into a smile. “I’m out of practice, but actually I was taught by Pierre Bernard, the Great Oom himself, at one of his schools in New York, some years ago. I always enjoyed the sessions.”

I was fascinated despite myself, or perhaps disarmed by his bright, startlingly blue eyes. “Delighted to meet you,” I said, making to rise. “Mr…”

“Harvey,” he said, extending his hand to help me up. I took it, allowing him to assist me. “Leonard Harvey. Leo.” He didn’t so much shake my hand as grasp it. His palm was large and very warm. 

“Cornelia Cavendish,” I introduced myself. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet a fellow student of the Tantra,” he said. “Especially when there are so many who think of us as nothing but sexually deviant occultists.”

“Yes,” I agreed, thinking of Dorothy’s neighbours. “I believe I may have encountered some of those, if indirectly. But, I have travelled to twenty-seven countries, Mr Harvey, which has opened my mind to many things.”

My new friend looked impressed, as well he might. “Have you really?” he asked in wonder. 

“Yes,” I said. “I’m afraid it has become something of a habit. But it is how I have come to be here, so…”

“You’re English, yes?” he asked.

“I am,” I replied. 

“And how are you finding our American hospitality?”

“It’s been a bit of a mixed bag,” I told him honestly. “But then, it has been rather an unusual trip.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Allow me to make it up to you. Would you like to take a walk?” He gestured to the path he had been on when he spotted me. “I’d love to hear about your travels. I have been fortunate enough to see a great deal of this country, but I’m afraid I’ve never been to any others.”

I was tempted. It was such a beautiful day, after all, and he seemed an interesting fellow, but I was still wary, and very much aware that my attire made me unfit for public scrutiny. 

“I’d be delighted,” I said, “but unfortunately I’m not dressed for it, and I must get back to the hotel in time for breakfast.”

Leonard Harvey gave a polite nod, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “You're also staying at the Webster?” he asked. 

“I am, though only until tomorrow morning. I’ve left my daughter in the care of friends, and it’s time I got back to her.”

He nodded again. “Are you terribly busy on your final day, then? Or may I call on you later?”

“You’re not going to try and sell me something, are you?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, shocking me with their bluntness. I felt colour rise in my cheeks, but Mr Harvey only laughed. 

“Heavens, no,” he said. “I merely enjoy interesting company.”

I smiled. “Then you’d be very welcome.”

I walked back to the hotel with a spring in my step. I did not believe he would call, not really - not once the interests of the day took him - but I was flattered all the same.

~*~

I have never been more happy to be wrong.

Not two hours later, I was relaxing in my room when the telephone rang. “Hello, Mrs Cavendish, it’s the concierge calling. I have a Mr Harvey on the line for you. May I put him through?”

“Certainly,” I replied. I waited for the phone to click, then tentatively enquired: “Hello?”

“Hello again,” he said. “I was hoping you’d be in.”

“Ah, Mr Harvey. I trust you enjoyed your walk?”

“I did,” he told me. “I found a lovely little spot by the water to read my paper, with a lively family of swans nearby. On my way back, I happened to pass a cafe that looked promising, so I was wondering if you might like to join me for coffee. Or tea, if you prefer.”

I was unprepared for the flutter in my belly that accompanied his offer. Certainly a simple walk and morning tea was the most innocent of proposals, but it had been a very long time since anyone had been quite so keen for my company. I am a woman of the world, however, so I was able to keep my composure. I graciously accepted his invitation. 

“Why, I’d be thrilled!”

I met him in the lobby a mere ten minutes later, having changed my hat and scarf three times in the interim. Given that I was so underdressed when we’d met earlier, I was determined to impress. I had thus selected a scarf with an oriental pattern, to better mimic the personal flair I’d observed in the wardrobes of many American women. 

When I arrived in the lobby he was waiting for me, casually observing a painting hung on the wall, from which he diverted his attention as soon as I arrived. 

He greeted me with a smile. “Mrs Cavendish,” he said, offering me his arm. “Shall we?”

We did. The cafe, Leo said (for that is what he entreated me to call him, after which I insisted that he call me Cornelia), was not far away, but as the day was still so fine we took a stroll first through Lincoln Park, wandering down to the shore of Lake Michigan to enjoy the sunshine. The swans were absent, but the conversation was more than enough to hold my attention. When asked what had brought him to Chicago, Leo told me that he was a silver trader, that his father had found the family’s wealth in the mountains of Colorado, and after being sent away to New York for his education, he had returned home to take over the family business. These days, he said, he spent most of his time travelling the country, securing contracts with manufacturers of jewellery, tableware, and mirrors, and even some photographers who used a particular chemical compound to help develop their pictures. 

“Silver is good for the spirit, too,” I said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

Leo smiled. “Well, it’s certainly good for mine, when I can make a sale.”

We passed the entrance to the Lincoln Park Zoo, pausing to admire the statues of trumpeting elephants and roaring lions that guarded the gates. 

“Have you been to Africa?” Leo asked me. 

I nodded. “To Egypt most recently, but in the past, as far south as the Belgian Congo. These don’t look like African elephants, though. They’re rather too small. Asian elephants, perhaps. I’ve ridden one of those.”

“Riding _elephants_?” Leo asked, incredulous.

I smiled. “Oh yes. They were the main mode of transport on a three day tour I once undertook in the wilds of Siam. They’re quite a comfortable ride, and intelligent enough to understand basic commands. On the tour I was a part of, we rode the same animal each day, and I felt like I got to know my particular companion rather well. She was very calm and gentle, but I have to say, she was quite the most flatulent creature I have ever encountered - certainly more so than the others in the group. It reached a point where the rest of the party could hear me coming!”

Leo laughed enthusiastically. “Marvellous. I suppose you have a hundred stories like that. You must tell me some more of them, Cornelia.” The lingering amusement in his tone leant a warmth to his voice when he said my name, and it set off another enjoyable flutter within me as we continued on our way. 

I didn’t tell him more stories, not immediately. Instead, as we looped back on the path towards the cafe, I asked him about his travels across the United States - how diverse was the country, and which were his favourite destinations?

“Well,” he said, “there is a lot to see. The great open skies of the Midwest, the pine forests in the north. Desert down south, and rainforest, and the redwoods in California. I came of age in New York, so it will always hold fond memories for me. New Orleans, too - I don’t think I’ve ever been somewhere so different. But it’s the mountains I miss, when I’ve been away from home too long - the air is different, and the sky.”

“Yes, I can imagine that,” I said. “You do seem to have rather a lot of sky in this country. Certainly more than I have in mine.”

We reached the cafe and settled in. The menu, I found, had a quite respectable range of teas, but the list of cakes and pastries may as well have been written in a foreign tongue, so full was it of garish American frivolities. I heard myself tutting.

“Is something wrong, Cornelia?” Leo asked. 

I did not want to offend him by insulting his choice of cafe - no doubt anywhere else would be the same. I sighed. “I find my tastes are rather British. I never know what to order in this country. Everything is a bit too rich and sweet for me.”

“Ah,” he said, “yes. Americans definitely don’t do things by halves. If something can be made bigger or bolder, it will be, and anyone who resists will find themselves ruthlessly drawn along with the tide. You surprise me, though. Surely, having travelled so extensively, you’ve encountered far more exotic fare than this?”

“I certainly have,” I agreed, but then was forced to concede, “though I suppose I have benefited from my country’s way of doing things, which is to take over a place and remake it in her own image. Even in the farthest reaches of the Orient I was never far from a European hotel, and comfortable familiarity.”

Leo smiled. “Well, maybe it’s time to challenge yourself and try something new.”

I eyed him. “Maybe.”

He held my gaze for just a moment longer, then turned his attention to the menu. 

“If you’ll accept a suggestion,” he said, “you might enjoy the key lime pie. It’ll no doubt be rich, but you might find it tart enough for your palate.” 

“I am always open to suggestion,” I said. 

The key lime pie was indeed rich, but rather enjoyable. As we lingered over our drinks, Leo asked me what the strangest food I’d ever eaten was, which made me pause for thought. I could not, of course, tell him about that meal in Hong Kong which had probably contained human flesh, so instead I told him about trying crocodile while in Africa, and of a strange drink made from fermented horse milk that I had actually rather enjoyed in Mongolia. 

“And yet it’s American food you find challenging,” he said, laughing again. 

“Well,” I retorted, “a lady is allowed to be contrary.”

We made our way back to the hotel in companionable silence, once again arm in arm. As we walked, I reflected that this had been quite the most pleasant morning I had spent in some time - for many years, in fact. It wasn’t that my life didn’t have its own pleasures. My travels had always invigorated me, and more recently, adopting Joy and learning to be a mother again - properly this time, with all of my enthusiasm and hopefully fewer mistakes - had given me a great sense of pride. But there was something very different, a singular delight, in enjoying the company of an interesting man. I felt sorry that it would soon be over, and my footsteps slowed as we approached the hotel, prolonging the moment before the inevitable end. 

But his pace was matching mine, and I was not holding him back. He glanced at me as we neared the hotel’s front doors. “Cornelia,” he said, “you might think this mighty presumptuous of me, and if you do we can just call me a tactless American and say no more about it, but is there any chance I might commandeer a little more of your time?”

There was the flutter again, that decrepit butterfly I hadn’t felt for so very long. “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

“Well, I rather thought I might like to take in a show this evening. Would you care to join me?”

“Will it involve butchering the bard?” I asked.

~*~

It did not.

When I met him again in the lobby in the early evening, he informed me that we would be heading to the Woods Theatre to see a nautical themed musical on tour from Broadway. I admired the sharp lines of his tuxedo, he complimented my green silk gown, and we were very shortly in a cab. 

I had my reservations about the production, but it turned out to be tremendous fun: colourful, brash and lively. Unlike in the Shakespeare production, the loud American voices in this one were complementary, and I found myself laughing as loudly as anyone else in the crowd and clapping along with the musical numbers. 

I felt energised afterwards as we spilled out into the street, and confessed my pleasant surprise to Leo now that the matter was done. 

“Ah, you see?” he grinned. “Sticking to the familiar is where you’ve gone wrong. _Of course_ we’re not as good at being English as the English themselves, but we’re better than anyone else at being American.”

I found myself agreeing. “Like going to Siam and insisting on riding a horse.”

“Exactly,” he concurred. 

I sighed. “How foolish I’ve been. Well, thank you for showing me how it’s supposed to be done. I’ve had a marvellous time.”

“It’s been my pleasure. Now, I don’t know about you, but I could use some supper. Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

We returned to the hotel to eat. Having avoided the dining room as much as possible in the last few days for fear of silent mockery, I felt strangely triumphant returning to it on Leo’s arm. We were ushered into one of the cosy corner booths, from which we ordered one of the evening’s three choices, chicken á la king, and some virgin cocktails. 

“This is still strange to me,” I said as I sipped mine. “The idea that a country as forward-thinking as this one has made having a glass of wine with dinner illegal.”

“It certainly isn’t a popular decision,” Leo agreed, “and probably not a wise one either. Why, only four months ago there were reports of a massacre in a place called Goose Lake, all of it linked to bootlegging and gang violence. Had you already arrived when that story broke?”

I sliced a piece of chicken with what I hoped was casual ease. “I believe I heard about it, yes.”

“Must have made you think this country was nothing more than thugs and bloodshed. Not a good image to be projecting to the world.”

“I’m sure it never made the international papers,” I said hurriedly. To my own ears I sounded panicked and desperate, so I knew I needed to move this conversation on. “Tell me about your studies under the Great Oom,” I requested, with what turned out to be a louder voice than strictly necessary. I modulated my tone. “Or, what did you call him? Pierre something?”

“Pierre Bernard, yes,” Leo agreed. If he’d found my transition awkward he was polite enough to pretend otherwise. “I met him in New York in 1908. I’d recently moved there with the aim to grow my father’s business on the East Coast - it was a natural fit, given the opportunities and the fact that I’d been to school there. I believe I met him through a friend. He was running what he called the New York Sanskrit College - a blatant misnomer, given that it had almost nothing to do with language. Instead, he ran classes on Tantric philosophy and yoga, which I started to attend. I enjoyed them, and I went often, at least until he got arrested in 1910.”

“He _what?_ ” I exclaimed. 

Leo smiled at me. “There was a scandal involving two young women who claimed he’d made inappropriate advances. I don’t doubt at least part of it was true. He was charismatic, and he taught some rather unconventional methods for achieving bliss. Attractive ladies were never far away from him. I imagine those girls got in over their heads - I say that only because they dropped the charges a few months later. Either way, it taught me a valuable lesson.”

“Oh?” I asked. “And what was that?”

“To only deploy those tantric methods on those already experienced, or at least those very keen to learn more.” There was a twinkle in his eye when he spoke, and I recognised his line for what it was. How gratifying to be on the end of it, though, to find myself a target of seduction. 

I settled for a smile in response. I did not know yet whether I would bite. 

We finished our supper speaking of other things - New York winters and Indian summers; a playful disagreement over the pronunciation of English words. When at last we’d finished our meals and laid our empty glasses down, he looked at me with those sparkling eyes once more. 

“If you really are tired of our dry city,” he said, “I do have something upstairs that’s a little stronger. Would you fancy coming up for a nightcap?”

A warm tension took hold in the pit of my stomach, spread out through my limbs. The intention of his question was written in the air, and I had never, ever done anything like this before. It strained the bounds of my propriety, went against everything I’d ever been taught. But today had been a sequence of new and enjoyable experiences, and tomorrow I would return to my companions and discover what new inroads they had made in our occult investigation. I had no idea where that would take me, or if I would even survive it. All things considered, how did I want to spend tonight?

In the end, it was the condescending voice of the concierge I heard, sneering at me at breakfast. I twisted it, though, spun it around and flung it back out at the universe, daring it to contradict me:

_This is a hotel, not a convent._

“I’d love to,” I said, and we rose.

 

[After many hours of thorough investigation, I have concluded that the Tantra is a truly preoccupying field of study; one which I will enthusiastically attempt to master in future, if the opportunity should arise.]


End file.
